If all the things
that’s left unsaid
would gather in a cloud
and pierce the sky
in poignant cry
sharp
and shrill
and loud
if all those words
came pouring down
if all those questions fell
symphonical apologies
and minuettes from hell

the earth might sigh
a slow relief
her hidden drought destroyed
the birds might shrink
and turn their backs
anxious
and annoyed

and we might live
despite the glare
of brightened understanding
or drown amidst
the fatal force
of being too demanding.